ugly mornings
by rolls
Summary: You don't know how far you've gone until you regret it. — ButchButtercup, Greens


She has sex with him for the first time. It's not terrible but it's not beautiful either. Not even romantic. They weren't even dating.

She'd been angry with him - at him. Always angry and the real question was: when was she ever not angry? Buttercup knows it best: the fury warm and bubbling in her belly, an ugly twist in her heart, and peeled back, is always the itch drumming up and down the bones. It comes easy to her, a recognizable little thing. Tick, tick and everything falls into place. Like second nature.

The energy spills over - destroys half of the city. It eats a bit of herself too. The only reason people come to congratulate her - wow, she saved the day - is because she managed to kill the terrorizing monster in amidst of her chaos as well.

And because energy is never destroyed but merely converted, her anger manifests into something of guilt just as quickly as it came. It's even worse because she doesn't even know where to begin. But with Butch, there was never any guilt. Buttercup allows herself to be harsher on him because he has the terrible rage - the same kind that leaves herself less and less. It swallows him whole and what's left is just another monster inside a boy's body.

Buttercup knows she wasn't born with these demons, not like Butch was. That was the problem: Butch was born evil undoubtedly, was a devil from the start. Always had evil brewing. Everybody knew that. But the real problem: she wasn't born like that. She wasn't like that. She wasn't like him. So why were the same demons running through her spine with terrible whispers ringing in her head? They weren't there before, she knows. So there must have been something - a terrible something to feed them because they weren't there before and she knows so -

"You look pissed," he snarls through his staggering breaths.

She snaps back and looks at him hard. "And whose fault do you think that is?," she says and then, teeth sinks into his shoulder - the one that she popped out of place and tore a hole through several minutes ago.

"Fuck!" In turn, his hips crudely grinds with hers, pushes in quick. It's worth it just to see her eyes glaze over and roll back, half-lidded. Her nails dig harder into his gut, bleeding sloppy red over both of them.

Buttercup doesn't have time to react before he shoves back in with full force. This time, she cries out and sees stars. And her: she bites and scratches and hollers until her voice has given away.

There's nothing but a tangle of blood and limbs and bruises and promises of destruction.

* * *

She can't even look at him - doesn't want to look at him. Anything with Butch is synonymous with regret. Buttercup spends the whole week, dodging Butch in the hallways, streets, just everywhere. It's really not that hard either since he rarely appeared in her life unless he was creating mass destruction. Blossom, who was always quick to notice, didn't say anything. Buttercup wasn't planning on telling anyone either anytime soon.

Butch, however, doesn't offer the same courtesy.

He tells the whole damn school. Every single one of them. He even goes as far as to give his evaluation of her.

"I didn't expect her to be a virgin either- "

Simply a green blur was all it took to land him on the other side of the hallway. His head cracks unpleasantly on impact. His crowd of audience dissipates not a moment later, making their way into the respective classrooms, smart to know danger ahead.

It takes a moment for his eyes to refocus and takes even longer for him to stand up. He smiles unkindly, "Oh hey. I was just talking about you." He doesn't make the motion to hit her, knows that he doesn't have to. Butch can hurt her far more with this. "I haven't seen you around for a while. I almost thought you forgot about me."

Then, she knows. She knows he's been angry too - the same haunting fury. Like her. She can tell just by the way his eyes slit, hiding the whites of his eyes. A demon. "You are such an asshole."

He sneers, baring his teeth. "I thought you were dating Mitch. Didn't get that far, huh?"

Her face twists into something ugly when she snaps back, "Fuck off. Don't get the impression that you're something special."

"I wouldn't ever," he promises with a tight fake smile. "But you know, Mitch seemed to already know you were a virgin. Nothing new there. So imagine his surprise when I tell him that I already fucked you. Poor bastard. He looked like he was gonna- "

Buttercup doesn't give him the chance to finish when she charges right into his stomach, blasting both bodies several miles out the window. The momentum sends his body digging into a crater. Butch feels the blood run out from him before his eyes snap open. He always bled easily.

Butch shoves her off before she swings another punch to the side of his head. Then, he's on his feet, hopping from one foot to the other, shaking out the nerves. He barrels on without losing his wicked grin, "He's in love with you. Or was. But you already knew that. You can tell by the way he touches you. Not anymore- "

"Shut up!" Her fist makes contact at his jaw and he's flying backwards again. Buttercup doesn't let him land because she grabs a fistful of his hair and grates his face into the nearest skyscraper. As they fell hundreds of feet off the ground, Butch's head breaks a long scar into the building with rubble and glass flying. For all that's worth, he only has a wet, open gash that swept across this face. She clenches down his hair, tilts his head up, and makes him look her in the eye. "You must have a death wish," she spits venomously. "I should just rip your head off." She'll do it too because nothing is in between, no reservations, no holding back and even the demons cannot stop -

What's worse is that he can still say this, "You look fucking pissed." Given the opening, he knees swiftly at her chest. Buttercup chokes. A second later, Butch hurls the nearest passenger truck at her and laughs when she is buried. Buttercup overthrows it from underneath and lunges at the boy in the air.

In the exchange of hits and jeers, they've both become so mangled and broken in the end that it's just a struggle to stand straight, huffing in and out shallow breaths. Nothing is forgiven. Buttercup licks her lips, swallows the rust, and promises, "Rot in hell" before she blacks out.

* * *

Blossom knows about the fight. She knows because she recites to Buttercup the suspension letter from the principal. Which is a surprise, because Buttercup thinks it could've been worse.

Blossom tells her that's not the point.

"The point is, you know better than to get riled up like that. But you always choose the violence and then, your decision becomes a liability to everyone else around you. I think you know that too but now, I'm not so sure."

"I know. I'm not sorry."

"Of course you're not. You're never sorry," Blossom sighs and studies the ceiling. "That's the problem. You don't know how far you've gone until you regret it."

There it was again - the small swell of guilt lingering. So she diverts to the clear tubes running up and through her body, the stitches that clamped her broken skin together, the swelling bruises that marked. It even hurts to breathe a little bit, so Buttercup lies back down on her pillow gently. "Is the Professor really mad?"

"Do you even have to ask that?" Blossom gives her a fast look. "You get yourself nearly killed and there's several millions in property damage."

The word works around her tongue and hesitates. She can even taste the rust lingering in the side of her mouth. "Sorry."

Blossom scowls, "Don't do anything reckless." Then, she leaves.

* * *

Buttercup is polite enough to call him several times ( - "please leave a message after the tone" - ) before she gives up and does it the only way she knows best: barging to his place. It was always fairly easy to find; his home was the creaky, worn-down trailer just two miles from their old kindergarten school. Since Mitch lived with his grandmother, neither of the two bothered with the upkeeping of the yard, or the interior for that matter. Buttercup never minded the weeks of greasy dishes, sprawled paper and clothes in his room, or the manifestation of abundant weeds in the yard whenever she came over to hang out. After all, everything else tends to fade out when you love someone.

"Go away." Mitch is already there on the front porch, like he's guarding for her, like he'd expected her to show up now. He's furious; she can tell by the way his shoulder comes close to his ears, the way he's clenching and unclenching his fists, the way he can't even look at her. When he doesn't hear her zooming away, he snarls, "Are you deaf? I said, beat it."

She doesn't move towards him but she doesn't back away either. She stands several yards away because she knows best when someone needs his space. Buttercup tries, "Listen, I'm - "

"I don't want your goddamn apology." He's glaring at her now; he looks mad enough to kill her. "Leave. Nothing you say can make this any better."

Because Buttercup has been more stubborn than relenting, she marches up to him until she can just reach out her hand and touch him. He's breathing more heavily, and she can see the wheels turning in his head. Like he's deciding if he should hit her or hold her. He waits to see what she does next.

Her voice stays uncharacteristically quiet, as if she might scare him away. "I know you hate me right now. I'm sorry, and I know it's not enough but I'm still sorry. It wasn't suppose to be like this -"

"Then I guess it was suppose to be a secret between the two of you, huh? And I just got in the way, knew something that I wasn't suppose to be a part of. You guys really suit each other." He sneers bitterly, eager to hurt.

"Don't be stupid," she snaps, eyes bright with fury, "You know that I love you, Mitch. And Butch, he's nothing to me. Nothing at all. You know that too."

"I always knew there was something going on between you two." She winces, closing her eyes. "I thought he was being a jackass and messing around."

"Mitch - "

"It doesn't matter now. Just leave," he snaps again. "Don't make this harder. Just leave, okay? I'm done." With that, he goes inside his home and bolts the door. He waits around, holding his breath, and peeks through the peephole in time to see a light green trail as she flies. He half-expected her to knock down this door, screaming.

* * *

There's a period of time (two months) which Buttercup is on her best behavior that consists of: not destroying any more town property and not killing Butch. She has a good streak going on, ever since Blossom issued the restraining order on Butch. ("That boy is no good for you," Blossom knowingly tells and Buttercup silently agrees with this.) It's mostly quiet without him, blaring and crude and jeering, provoking her own demons inside. She's a Powerpuff Girl right down to her bones; she's no monster, and there wasn't ever any evil brewing. All of it was imagined. The only monster here was Butch, and he's gone, thank God, so -

The phone cuts her thoughts. She shakes herself off, picking up and answering, "Hello?"

"I heard you broke up with Mitch," he sneers unpleasantly. "Or maybe it was the other way around?"

She should've just hung up right there. Instead, she humors the monster-boy, speaking low and dangerously into receiver, "I'll snap your neck in half if you come anywhere near him." It's not any more of a threat than it is a promise. "I should just kill you for everything that you ruined."

"Funny how the hero should say that to the villain." There it was again. Her demons, left unchecked, went loose and powerful, ready to snap anything in her path. She was ready to tear holes in the air, split everything neatly in half, go crazy. Butch knew how to flirt with her demons.

"What are you trying to do?" There was really nothing from him to take, to royally fuck up.

"I'm not even trying. You ruin yourself," Butch laughs and hangs up.

* * *

She does something dangerous and stupid: she hunts Butch. He looks bright and giddy for a brawl when he sees her. He's quick to get back on his feet after her fist socks into his jaw. Something gives way underneath because she hears a clean snap. Adrenaline pumps feverishly throughout her body, and everything feels right.

She pummels him into the concrete. Suddenly, everything is a blur when she draws her arm back to smack his skull repeatedly. He's not even struggling; he's just looking up, bright green eyes boring right at her. He's grinning so wide, that stupid little shit, so she bashes his teeth in too. He spits the blood right at her.

She's sitting on his stomach, calves bracing his arms in place. Palms down, she smacks hard onto his chest, and he coughs up more red. His ribs give way, too. He can barely breathe, only sputters out blood when he does exhale.

Satisfied and disgusted with herself, she stops, inspecting her ruined work.

"Finally," he gurgles out, still grinning like he won. He pulls down the collar of her shirt until he's kissing her sloppily. He doesn't stop until she looks like bleeding smile, just like him. "You're not as good as people give you credit for."

Her demons hum as they both dance and grind each other, dissipating to nothing more than their own evil and ruin.


End file.
